


A Magnificent Creature

by stepantrofimovic



Series: how clear, how lovely bright [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas Presents, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e03 Prey, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Missing Scene, aka The One With The Tiger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: “So. Two man-eaters. Not just one.”(At the end ofPrey, CS Bright and WPC Trewlove can be seen climbing into the same police car. This is how the conversation between them might have gone if no one else was there.)--Now with an entirely unplanned sequel involving tiger pyjamas!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly an excuse to write two of my favourite characters together. It assumes sad headcanons about Bright, which should become clear as you read.
> 
> Also, I might have Trewlove all wrong, since I’ve only seen her in two episodes so far, but this is what she currently sounds like in my head.

“So,” she starts, as they’re driving past the gates of Crevecoeur. There would be no way to disguise the sharp edge of excitement and admiration in her voice, not even if she wanted to. “Two man-eaters. Not just one.”

Bright doesn’t reply immediately, but out of the corner of her eye she can see the nervous twitch of his mouth in a half-smile, even as she pretends to stare at the road.

“It was a magnificent creature,” he says finally. “Truly magnificent. I’m sorry that we had to – but then of course. We had to.”

She allows herself a wry smile of her own. “DC Morse is also a magnificent creature, sir. I’m glad it was the tiger and not him today.”

He tilts his head to one side, then the other. His fingers are twitching restlessly in his lap. Of course he wouldn’t know what to make of that, she thinks.

What’s unusual is the way this does not diminish her opinion of him.

“Indeed,” he says finally, sounding almost winded. As if it had cut his breath short, just thinking about what to say. “Indeed.”

She allows him a few more minutes of silence before she addresses him again, jolting him out of his thoughts. He had almost managed to relax into his seat, even, but now she’s forced him to jump back to attention. She feels almost sorry for him.

“It’s a pity,” she says, airily, “that Mr. Craven wasn’t there to see it. It would have been… interesting. To see him reconsider.”

Bright’s fingers twitch once in his lap, then go very still. Clenched, she realizes, pressing down against his thighs.

“I will not –” and his voice has a shrill, almost hysterical edge to it “– allow such disrespect within my ranks, Constable. You are well advised to keep your opinions to yourself.”

There’s no reason it should sting like it does, really. “Sir.” As the word comes out of her mouth, she knows Bright can hear the brittleness in her voice.

That’s the problem with not wanting to disguise things, she thinks to herself. People end up seeing them, sometimes.

Morse, she finds herself thinking, would understand. Only, instead of the usual excitement she feels when she thinks about him, there’s only a dull fear.

***

He has not spent the rest of his afternoon thinking about what happened in the car. He has not.

Still, when WPC Trewlove knocks at the door to his office – lightly, she does everything _lightly_ , this one –, he almost jumps in his seat.

“Come in, Constable. How can I help you?”

This is good, he thinks. Easy. Benevolent. Keep running a happy ship, if a tight one. Let go of the little things, like what happened earlier. No use dwelling on such trivial unpleasantries, really.

“I’ve come to apologise, sir,” she says. “For what I said earlier.”

And that’s it for not going back on trivial unpleasantries, he supposes.

He doesn’t say anything. Later, he’ll tell himself he was waiting for her to continue. The truth is, he doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t know what to do with this one.

She makes a visible effort to carry on. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, but I understand that what I said could be – was untoward.” A tight smile. “It won’t happen again.”

He finally finds it in himself to open his mouth. “No need to trouble yourself, Constable,” and oh, he hates the way his voice comes out strained, the way his fingers clutch at his cigarette. In different circumstances, he might have said ‘son’ instead.

‘Son’ is safe. ‘Son’ doesn’t make his heart feel like it’s shattering into a million pieces in his chest. Trewlove’s face as she looks at him in earnest from behind the desk does.

He forces a smile. It’s tight and uneven. “I accept your apology, of course.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Sir.”

No need to call her out on her too-long pause, he decides. Instead, he busies himself by lighting another cigarette. It takes him four tries.

“You’ve done good work on this case, Constable.” _I’m proud_ , he almost says. The words get stuck somewhere in his chest, crushing all the air out of his lungs.

“Sir,” she nods.

“You’re dismissed for today,” he tells her. “Go home, Constable. Get some rest.”

As she’s opening the door, she calls to him over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He chokes on the next drag of his cigarette, and doesn’t recover for a few minutes after she’s left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was not exactly planning a sequel to this, but then pinkfloralcake posted [this piece of art](https://pinkfloralcake.tumblr.com/post/167584433995/may-i-ask-for-a-badly-drawn-reginald-bright) on Tumblr and... I couldn't help myself.

Chief Superintendent Bright stands ramrod straight behind the shelter of his desk, clutching the barely-opened package in his hands. The paper – plain brown, but tied with a festive-looking piece of red and green string – crinkles under his clawed, shaking fingers.

For a moment, all he can think is, this is a gag gift. Something the rest of the precinct bought for fun. Bought it to _make_ fun of him, frail, neurotic CS Bright with his trembling hands and outlandish tales about the man-eater of Kot Kindri.

But the print is surprisingly tasteful, orange, white and black on blue – high quality, pricey, even for a novelty item. Certainly not something one would buy as a gag, especially not on a police salary. And, most importantly, there have been two man-eaters now, not just one. Half of the people in the room saw him shoot the tiger at Crevecoeur. And this time, the man he was trying to save is still alive, sitting in front of him with a frown on his face and his own bundle of brown paper in his lap – a poetry book, something that had made Dr DeBryn smile in a way that told Bright too many things he didn’t want to know.

He’s been still for too long, he realises. Forces himself to keep tearing the paper apart, even though his hands are shaking so much that he’s afraid he may drop it.

He unwraps the whole thing, shakes it open with a jerky snap of his wrist, before he even dares raising his eyes to face his audience. It’s a set of night-clothes – pyjamas, of course. Light blue cotton with rows of tigers printed all over the shirt, orange and white and black, mighty paws following regal heads following long, well-balanced tails.

‘Do you like it? We, uh, we all chipped in a little bit, you know.’ DS Strange, his simple, uneducated accent making the words stand out even more against the background silence. It wasn’t the rushing in Bright’s ears drowning out the sound, he realises – the whole room really is wrapped in silent expectation.

He does raise his eyes then. Morse is still where he left him, perched on a chair with Strange not at all subtly hovering above him. DeBryn is standing politely near the door, with the air of someone who’s well aware he doesn’t quite fully belong. DI Thursday, for his part, is also standing at the back, slowly twirling his hat in his hands and not taking his eyes off Bright’s face, except to glance briefly towards a corner of the room.

Bright knows exactly who’s in that corner. He doesn’t need Strange’s next words, pointing out that ‘Trewlove, uh, WPC Trewlove found them at Burridges, you know, sir, and then we couldn’t possibly –’

Trewlove is there, in that corner, looking directly at him. She’s smiling, a tinge of amusement and tentative pride that is belied by the tension around the corners of her mouth, the nervous way she’s grasping her own hat, unconsciously mirroring Thursday’s pose. Entirely inappropriate, that. Someone should have words with her.

He blinks, once, twice, fighting to clear away the mist in his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he forces out, and for a moment there’s nothing else, and he’s filled with fear at the thought that this is all he can say, those two words choked off by the tightness growing in his chest.

A sharp cough, his nervous habits coming to his rescue at the best possible moment. ‘Thank you.’ He drapes the pyjamas over the back of his chair – inappropriate, inappropriate, inevitable – with only slightly clumsy hands. ‘I appreciate the thought, Detective Sergeant.’ Another cough, his hand suddenly free to come up to his mouth, stifling it, hiding the shaking. With the other hand, he pats his pockets for a cigarette.

It’s all that’s needed, it seems, for the party to resume, everyone chatting with their neighbour, the old Chief Superintendent and his gift of tigers already forgotten. Everyone except for Trewlove, whose smile has lost that brief touch of nervousness. She looks him in the eye and laughs, proud and without a care in the world, and Bright pretends the twitch of his lips is not an answering smile of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> I am, as usual, amenable to being found [on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/).


End file.
